


from her fingertips

by kiiouex



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: F/F, Fingering, It's porn, POV Second Person, please enjoy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-31
Updated: 2016-03-31
Packaged: 2018-05-30 07:34:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6414664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiiouex/pseuds/kiiouex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cialina is silver-blonde in the night, a goddess leaning against her steering wheel, looking at you somewhere between appraising and appreciative. For every inch of you that shivers nervously wondering what she must make of you, there is a hungry ache to just <i>know</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	from her fingertips

**Author's Note:**

> This fic brought to you by how much I miss writing femslash and the terrible drought of female characters Blue’s age. If we have Skov and Swan and Jiang then we can have Cialina, right? 
> 
> Beta’d by the wonderful [telekinesiskid](http://archiveofourown.org/users/telekinesiskid), even though she forgot who Cialina is. (The other waitress at Nino’s. She got an _entire line_ of dialogue)

The worst part about working at Nino’s is absorbing the schedule of every Aglionby sports team. You don’t want to know. You really couldn’t give less of a fuck whether it’s polo season, or lacrosse, or something like billiards because that probably passes as a sport at that awful school. But no; after every game, some bright young spark will inevitably tell his team, “Let’s go to Nino’s,” and you have to learn that the tennis club comes in sweaty enough to stick to the vinyl seats on Tuesdays and that the hunting club drag their muddy boots across the lino on Saturday mornings.

When they’ve won, they’re good at tipping. When they’ve lost, they shred the napkins and make surly demands for service that you absolutely do not rush to meet. When the entire crew team comes in high on triumph with enough friends to fill the restaurant, you despise them. When that happens and Cialina is late, you strongly consider declaring a ‘psychic emergency’ and walking out. Donny would believe it.  

You’re late all the time, but you don’t _mean_ to be, so it’s forgivable. Cialina’s late like she means to be, pulling up fifteen minutes after her shift starts with her pick-up’s engine panting insolently from the parking lot. You have her apron in hand so that you can shove it onto her the second she’s inside, snap, “I’m still doing drinks, get their orders,” and leave her to eye them while you race back to the tables.

She still takes her time, twists her hair up, considers the rowdy mess of boys like she is doing a thorough opportunity-cost calculation before finally wading in. Somehow, none of them mind waiting for _her_. If you’re being honest – and if you were a customer and not a beleaguered co-worker – you probably wouldn’t mind waiting either.

Cialina has a very direct way of dressing, the kind that takes people by the hand and says  _this is the part of me you want to look at. Admiration is non-optional_. Today it’s her legs, endless, sun-browned and shapely. Her shorts are a blistering lime, too small to show under her apron, and she makes an  _impression._ It looks so effortless your heart clenches with something you try to call jealousy, but isn’t.

The Aglionby boys love her, in the awful kind of way that means they flirt in front of their friends, artless and loud and somehow making every compliment they pay her about themselves. ‘You’d look great in my Lexus’ compliments. You tend to get ‘I’ll buy you a shirt without holes in it’ compliments, which are just disheartening really.

When you and she both get a break up front, she sighs regally and glares in their direction. “Would you believe,” she starts, a jangle of Henrietta vowels, “they keep inviting me to their parties? Can you imagine what those fucking things must be like?”

You can, and it is your life’s ambition to never attend. “At least it’s crew,” you offer. “They tip.”

“Yeah,” she mutters, drumming her nails on the counter. They’re luminous orange, black-veined and white speckled, monarch wings. She told you once that’s how she spends her evenings when her boyfriend’s out – and she usually has a boyfriend, and he usually has a name like Mack – and she and you both regarded your nails at the same time. Blunt, gnawed, and in nailbeds you pick at when you’re stressed, which is to say, constantly. She’d said that if you left them alone they could be pretty, and you ran a few coats of Orla’s polish over them that night out of spite. You’d picked it off in two days. Cialina’s are a lot easier to enjoy.

“Excuse me,” someone calls in an accent so polished you could slip on it, “Service?”

Cialina looks at you. You look at her. They’re sprawled between your sections, and conflict-resolution traditions demand rock-paper-scissors. You stick out a fist at the same time she throws scissors, the wings on her fingers fluttering as she makes a savage snipping motion at you before getting back to work. You try very hard not to stare at her legs as she goes, and you try even harder not to _gawp_ like the rest of the crew team, and when you fail you busy yourself with ice tea instead.

It takes a small eternity to hustle the crew team out of the restaurant, even though their captain pays for all of it without even _looking_ at the bill and Cialina mutters everything you’re thinking under her breath. Even though she has an unfortunately high tolerance for local boys, she’s still united with you against Aglionby. You feel a delightful spark of solidarity, that’s ruined the instant a pile of boys from your class come in and she declares, “I’m taking a break.”

“Now?” you ask, watching six of them cram themselves into a booth, dusty and fierce and terrible in a uniquely different way to the Aglionby crowd. “Wait, isn’t that Mike? Aren’t you dating him?”

“ _Was_ ,” she says, halfway out the back already.

At least you’re not a foreign species to regular high schoolers, and you can take Mitch’s order with a minimum of questions about the missing fabric from your shirt. Cialina shows up before they’re gone, but there’s no one else to serve so she stretches out up front and leaves the rest to you. There’s a lot of her to stretch, and you think she probably does _a_ sport though you can’t remember what. Track, maybe. Swimming. Something that involves a lot of leg. You kick her in the shin when the next party gets in.

By the end of your shift you’re sagging and remembering why you need new shoes. Cialina’s platinum blonde hair has gotten frizzy and tired, and she pulls it loose from its tie with an exhausted hiss. It’s late, closing is daunting, but at least you get to lock the doors and finally shut off the grinding loop of the music.

“Sorry about Mark,” you say, because mopping is boring and second-hand drama is not. “Though neither of you seem to care.”

She snorts, scrubs down tables, says, “No big loss. Someone else’ll come along.”

You bitterly wish you were the kind of girl boys _came along_ for, but you aren’t for so many reasons. Your only real consolation is knowing you’re not _content_ with Henrietta, and every single woman in your life has shown you that being malcontent is a fantastic way to make things happen. Cialina’s going to stay in Henrietta and marry Max and somehow be okay with that. Still though, you think, eying her sideways. It feels like a waste. There’s so much about her that could be weaponised.

She catches you looking – she catches your eyes _very obviously_ following the curve of her spine – and she stares, and you flush red in an instant, wondering if you’re meant to apologise or do you both a favour and pretend it never happened. “God,” she says, almost conversational. “ _Really?_ ”

“Well,” you start, defensive even though you’re not sure what you’re trying to defend. “Would it matter?”

She straightens up, and to your mixed horror and joy, she seems almost considering. You have no idea what you would do with a girl like Cialina, but you’d love the chance to find out. The silence she leaves is just long enough to make you feel ridiculous, heart beating an erratic staccato, and then she laughs, a sudden bubble of a sound. “Why the fuck not?”

It takes you a moment to process that as a _yes_ and a moment longer before you can speak through the mad rush of blood to your head. “I. Uh,” you say, because you hadn’t thought she’d say _yes_ , “Sure?”

Her eyes narrow, unconvinced of your conviction, but you yank your apron off, try to rake your hair into the kinds of spikes that look cute instead of the kind that look like you jammed your hand into an electrical outlet. Since she is standing _right there_ it doesn’t really make you look any cooler, and she laughs again, drawling out a _ha_ and closes the space between you.

She kisses you like she knows what she’s doing, and you think vague and frantic thoughts about prophecies that have only ever held male pronouns before the taste of her lipstick erases your doubts. You’ve noticed everything about her in pieces, winged eyeliner and cheap, sweet perfume, the careless red she colours her lips with, but it is desperately different all together and pressed against you. You drown in the knowledge that she has kissed _many_ more people than you, and do your very best to kiss her back, combating inexperience with determination.

Cialina pulls back, snorting and bemused, and your poor heart sinks. She asks, "Don't you know how to do this? I thought your whole family was lesbian witches." 

You huff with offense, but there was a heavy drift of admiration in her tone and you don't really have it in you to object. It’s a toss-up, deciding which part you should be defensive about. “They aren’t _witches_.”

“Well,” she says, and you don’t think you’ve ever been this close to her, you don’t think you have ever been so absorbed by the golden threads in her brown eyes, “Do you want to try?”

You imagine her fingers splayed out over your skin, butterfly wings trailing down your stomach, the flutter of them against you, and you swallow hard. “God,” you say, and your answer is in the air you’re suddenly struggling to swallow. “Yes.”

You cut every single corner you can on closing because it’s Nino’s and no one’s even going to notice. Cialina follows you to the back when you’re putting the last things away, a lean and gorgeous creature, and you don’t think she’s done this before but she certainly has enough confidence to _try_. She asks, “You want to do it here?”

"Do you think I want to spend another damn minute in this place?" you demand, cheeks pink. You know for a fact that some Aglionby boys would love to know you _would_ , and that means you absolutely never can. 

"Fine," she sighs, "Get in my pick-up, then." 

You get in her pick-up. Old CDs and take out wrappers rattle around your feet as the truck rumbles back to attention, and she backs out of the empty Nino’s parking lot. The truck was inherited from her cousin, third or fourth or fifth hand, and it strikes you as the kind of thing you’d like to drive if you’d be able to see over the wheel. “Where are we going?”

“I don’t know,” she says. “You didn’t want to stay there.”

Taking her back to 300 Fox Way would be a nightmare barrage of questions and enough taunting to last you the rest of your life. Cialina’s mentioned younger siblings in quantities that you forget, but you’re willing to bet are high enough to rule her place out. She’s driving aimlessly along the back roads, and when you’ve gone ten minutes without passing another car, you think you’re in the clear. “How about here?”

The silence after she kills the engine is enveloping, an absence that picks you up and reminds you of the apprehension you should feel. You don’t want to be nervous. Cialina is silver-blonde in the night, a goddess leaning against her steering wheel, looking at you somewhere between appraising and appreciative. For every inch of you that shivers nervously wondering what she must make of you, there is a hungry ache to just _know_.

You reach over, fingers brushing her wrist, and the first touch breaks the taut thread between you, makes everything else effortless. She kisses you again, and you do better, the breathless push of her lips against yours lighter and sweeter. You half-crawl out of your seat to wrap your arms around her shoulders, and she’s falling back into you, clever fingers brushing back your tangled hair, following the curve of your neck, sneaking through the holes in your shirt to find your singlet, skin, bra. You make a sound that you would like to consider a moan but is really more of a squeak, and when she chuckles it’s lost under the curl of her tongue against yours.

It seems incredibly unfair that she’s better at this than you are when you’re the one with the carefully cultivated eccentricity and lesbian witch family, so you rush to keep up. You slide hands up her shirt, wonder if she’ll let you unhook her bra, delight when she _does_ , and then marvel at every inch of her. There is no way Matt understood what he had. His loss, your gain.

You spend too long tracing over her graceful curves, and she tweaks your nipples hard enough to make you squeak again. “You are so _gay_ ,” she tells you, sounding delighted, and swallows you in another kiss. This one is less soft, coloured by all the bare skin between you, the growing heat in the truck’s cab. She pinches you again, too sharp for your taste, and when you knock her hands away she settles them on your thighs instead. Her fingers spread out eagerly, your tights are beyond insubstantial, and this time you manage a proper moan. You feel wild and alive and rebellious even though you’re somehow sure that your mother would approve.

She tugs at your tights at the same time you start trying to unclasp her shorts, and there’s an awkward pause while you both try to strip in your seats. Your tights tangle around your ankles, but you manage to kick them off, and Cialina sheds lime-green shorts and cherry-print underwear in the same second. Self-consciousness threatens to rear up again, but you ward it off, weave one hand into her feathered hair, rest the other on her thigh, as high up as you dare.

There’s a tense heat waiting low in your stomach, still dormant as your mind tries to manage your every action and reaction, but it stirs as monarch-print nails rake over your hips. Probably, you should be embarrassed that she remembered to shave and you didn’t, but she strokes one finger against you, a motion so smooth and long it never seems to end, and finally, finally, your head starts to quiet and all your waiting ache takes over.

“You seem really good at this,” you accuse as you copy her, fingers hesitating between her thighs, daunted by the impossible warmth and softness of her skin. She shrugs lopsidedly, gives you a crooked flash of her teeth, and then her fingers are pressing up against you, spreading you open. You sag against her, mimic her movements, finally daring to touch her fully. She is incredibly wet for you, and it’s a spark of delight and desire you didn’t expect, that you could get a girl like Cialina turned on, that she’d really want to be sitting in the cab of her truck doing this with you.

You find her clit and she finds yours and there’s no chance of either of you speaking as shaky breaths fall from both your lips. You rub smooth little circles against her, revel in the silky feel and every little twitch of her legs, every cut-off hiss of a curse word. Sometimes you feel the dangerous edge of a nail when she flicks them so carefully feather-light against you, and you picture her hands, edged with monarch wings, working so hard to stoke the fire in you.

And it’s working; your breathing’s coming jaggedly, the hand in Cialina’s hair clenches and unclenches, starts to shake. Occasionally she rubs you wrong, or right, and your whole body quivers in an electric pulse.

It’s not a competition but you’re still desperate not to lose. You roll your thumb against her clit, crook your index finger up inside her, she bites out “ _fuck_ ,” and it’s the most erotic thing you’ve ever heard. The push of her hand against you is relentless, the slick feel of her is undoing you, and you bury your head into her shoulder, let your moans get louder as your chest heaves more and more with every pant and then you fall apart.

Your legs snap closed around her hand as you shiver, hazy warmth rolling through you in sweet, sharp pulses. Your fingers falter, but she rocks her hips up against them and you do the best you can to continue. She’s clearly canting her hips at a very particular angle, trying to push you to just the right place, and when you find it your reward is a groan that starts at the very back of her throat and reverberates all the way along your over-eager nerves.

You fall back against the seat and breathe in, trying to remember what regular inhalation is like, trying to figure out if you should be embarrassed or not. After a minute’s thought you conclude Not, and pull your tights back on, and enjoy the receding, lazy waves of your afterglow. Cialina crawls back into her shorts and starts her truck up, leaning back against the headrest and looking bonelessly content. “That was alright,” she says approvingly.

“Yeah,” you say, because what else are you going to say? Every inch of you is humming, and Cialina is tapping her fingers on the steering wheel to a tune you only vaguely recognise, and you think _probably_ work won’t be awkward tomorrow.

She drops you home with a lazy wave and a promise to see you later, words mangled by a combination of the Henrietta accent and her pleasant exhaustion. She’ll be hooked up with a new Mack in a week, and you’ll be back to waiting for your true-love-slash-future-victim and waiting on boys who do not deserve you.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, I'd love to know what you thought! I also [tumblr!](http://kiiouex.tumblr.com/)


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